Peppermint
by smilingsoprano
Summary: John and Sherlock decide to spend Christmas with the Watsons. Gift-giving, self-discovery, and hilarity  probably  ensue. Fluff! Slash! Probably a bit of crack! Gift fic.
1. Tea and Invitations

**Title: **Peppermint

**Author: **smilingsoprano

**Rating: **Currently K+. No promises for the future.

**Pairings: **Will be Sherlock/John, though that's only hinted in this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **None of this belongs to me. If I owned Sherlock, there would be no plot, only character development, and no one wants that.

**Summary: **John and Sherlock decide to spend Christmas with the Watsons. Gift-giving, self-discovery, and hilarity (probably) ensue.

**A/N: **This is part of my Christmas present for fantastic friend and fellow fangirl **harlequin dragon**. Love you, dear! As a result of her tastes and my wanting to branch out, these will be silly, cracky, and slashy, probably in about that order. Hopefully, they'll also be fun. This story will probably be three (fairly short) chapters, unless I get in deep, which I'm not aiming for. Not Brit-picked, sorry. Reviews are love and shall be loved in return. Enjoy this bit of Christmas-flavored fluff!

* * *

"Sherlock, do you want some hot cocoa?"

"Tea will be fine."

John, who was currently searching the kitchen cabinets for ingredients, sighed. After three weeks of December had already passed them by, it was abundantly clear that Sherlock wouldn't know Christmas spirit if it played the marimba naked on a mortuary table. John had put up decorations, John had cooked holiday foods, John had bought presents, and Sherlock hadn't even noticed.

"How about some eggnog?" he tried.

A pause, and the crisp response came in a slightly puzzled tone. "Are we out of tea?"

John felt his lips tightening in exasperation. "No, I suppose we're not. What sort?"

"Earl Grey."

Staring at the boxes lined up on the counter, John set his jaw, grabbed a teabag, and put the kettle on. When it began to whistle, he poured the hot water into Sherlock's favorite orange mug, added milk, and hesitated for just a moment before unwrapping a candy cane and defiantly plopping it into the steaming liquid.

Sherlock actually took a sip before he noticed. "This isn't Earl Grey."

"What a brilliant observation!" John snapped. The past week had pushed him dangerously close to a breaking point. "No, it's not."

"This is peppermint. With _sugar_."

"Hot, fresh, delicious, and seasonal."

Finally, Sherlock deigned to favor John with a look. Granted, it was a look which could have peeled paint, but at least it was recognition. John held his ground.

"From the tension in your facial muscles and the frankly confrontational tone, as well as this passive-aggressive refusal to bring me the tea I asked for, it is clear to me that you're angry about something. What is less clear is the catalyst for this outburst. Of late, I have been nothing if not accommodating and well-mannered." He paused, studying the candy cane as though it had sprouted wings. "Being less well-versed in emotions, I fear I must resort to interrogation. What, pray tell, is bothering you?"

Sighing again—it was an action he had perfected in his time spent living with Sherlock—John rubbed his temples. "Sherlock, what day is it?" he asked.

His flatmate frowned. "December 21st. I fail to see the import."

"You don't see . . . good God, please tell me this isn't like the solar system debacle."

"I rather think 'debacle' is far too grandiose a word for your petty judgments on what is and is not necessary information. Moreover, you have yet to explicate the significance of 'this,' which helps your cause but little."

John took a deep, calming breath. "What I mean is that . . . well, you _do_ know December 25th is Christmas, don't you? Please tell me you know that."

To his relief, Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I do. I am not an imbecile, as you should well know. Your insistence on the relevance of this common-knowledge fact is still misplaced, however. You inquired about _today_." His tone had turned patronizing, once again raising John's ire.

"Yes, of course I did! Christmas is in _four days_, Sherlock! I have been doing my damnedest to bring a little seasonal cheer and good spirits into this flat, and you have neither lifted a finger to help nor even _commented_ on any of my work. As many times as I have _tried_ to raise the subject, we have no idea where we are going or what we are doing. Sherlock, Christmas is my favorite holiday, and to be perfectly honest, you are _ruining_ it for me."

"Yes, well, I have always attempted to ignore the tawdry trappings and bric-a-brac the masses seem compelled to associate with this season." Luckily for his continued health, Sherlock chose that moment to glance up from his newspaper and notice the look on John's face. His ice-pale eyes flickered across the expression, coldly observant as always, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a pacifying smile.

"If you wish to discuss our plans for that day, however, I am more than willing."

Trying to soften what he knew was a deadly glare, John took the seat next to Sherlock on the couch. He looked down at his hands, waiting to speak until they were less white-knuckled. In the meantime, he breathed through his nose, willing his heart rate to slow. When he finally felt calm enough to trust his voice, he spoke.

"I thought we might spend Christmas with my family."

Sherlock had the grace to look surprised. In their time together, John had found that almost nothing could genuinely startle the consulting detective, but at least when he pretended he knew he was making an effort.

"Mother may be a bit put out, but given that another interminable dinner with my brother is as thoroughly unappealing to me as I'm sure it is to you . . . yes, your family might be quite refreshing to associate with. Will I be required to procure gifts, and if so, what categories of items would be deemed acceptable?"

John stared at his ivory-skinned, long-limbed flatmate for a moment, musing for the thousandth time on how alien the lamplight made him appear. "You know, I have despaired of you ever uttering a normal sentence," he muttered.

"Yes, well, you have yet to answer my question."

"Right, right. Um, since you haven't met my family, maybe just some small, inexpensive things. A gesture, but nothing that would put you out."

Sherlock nodded absently, his mind already elsewhere. Watching him, John felt a slight surge of affection for his flatmate. To be fair, the detective was actually trying to follow social conventions. It was a mark of the oddly close friendship that had developed between them over the past few months, despite the sheer unlikeliness of two people with their personalities getting on. They should have destroyed each other within minutes, but John enjoyed Sherlock's company much of the time—when he wasn't being insufferable or completely callous, that is—and Sherlock occasionally made an effort to be nice. It was an unrecognizable act if one didn't know him, as he was abominably bad at social interaction, but John saw those carefully calculated outreaches and accepted them. They meant progress.

John smiled down at his flatmate, who was once again absorbed in the newspaper. "I can take back the tea and make some Earl Grey, if you'd like."

"Oh." Sherlock looked at the mug in his hand, his expression contemplative. "It's fine. Your substitute is acceptable."

"You actually can say yes. I won't be offended."

"Right then. Earl Grey would be much appreciated."

"Consider it done."


	2. Jumpers and Stories

**Author's Note: **_Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews and alerts and faves! In this, the second (quite a bit longer) chapter, we meet John's family, see what happens when Sherlock finds someone willing to listen to him, and learn numerous things of varying importance. I have borrowed shamelessly from the original stories (they're public domain, I swear!), especially in the description of John's wound and Sherlock's deductions from "The Speckled Band," which I lifted directly and modernized somewhat. This is all fairly light. Still not Brit-picked; please correct slang, and I apologize if I chose the wrong neighborhood for the Watsons. I feel like I should warn for sociable!Sherlock (though we all know that basically translates to manipulative!Sherlock). The level of UST rises somewhat, though I guess you could still read this as gen if you really wanted to. The rating has also been raised to T, almost entirely for Harry's language. Thank you again! Enjoy!_

* * *

"Yes, Mum, we'd love to come over. What time do you want us? . . . Mhm. Great! . . . No, that'll work perfectly. We'll catch a cab there and plan on arriving around 4:00. Do you want us to bring anything? . . . Yes, I'm sure we could manage that. Just so we know about gifts and all that, who else will be there? . . . Oh, yeah . . . Of course I remember her! Wait, she and Harry are an item now? No, I didn't know. . . . Harry and I don't talk much, Mum. But don't worry, we are perfectly capable of being civil to each other in polite company. . . . Great. Well, I'm looking forward to seeing you. Love you too. Bye." John hung up with a smile, turning to face his flatmate, who was studying him with his deductive stare.

"You and your mother get on well," Sherlock stated. "You love her very much."

"I'm aware of this," John retorted. "And don't say it like it's something unnatural. You love your mother too."

The detective tilted his head, seeming to consider the observation. "Touche," he finally replied. John put on an expression of mock surprise, earning him a rare grin from Sherlock.

"As much as you like to think of me as an unfeeling automaton, I do occasionally have emotional responses. For instance, at the moment I am thoroughly disgusted by your choice of jumper. I might even be experiencing sympathetic embarrassment."

Somewhat startled by the near-joke, John laughed. "What's wrong with my jumper?"

That got him an incredulous eyebrow raise. "It is several sizes too large, I am hard put to say if the creature on the front is a reindeer or a Scottish terrier, and the shade of green is, to put it mildly, putrid. A more difficult question would be what is right with it."

John couldn't help but laugh again. Looking down at his jumper, he knew the analysis was correct. It was one of those utterly nonsensical things about his flatmate: Sherlock had impeccable taste. He shouldn't have, given that appearance would seem to fall into that category of social niceties that interested him insofar as they helped explain people's actions and no further. Nevertheless, as his own—rather flattering—wardrobe attested, the consulting detective cared a great deal about style. Mostly, John suspected, it had to do with removing himself from the common crowd and proclaiming his mental superiority through an intimidatingly well-turned-out appearance, but translated into normal terms, it just meant Sherlock was vain. Not that he didn't have good reason to be.

That train of thought led nowhere feasible, so John dragged his wandering attention back to the conversation at hand. "I'll change, then. Mum would probably agree with you." Turning back to the laundry basket (Mrs. Hudson had done some washing-up for them, no matter how many times she insisted that she was not their housekeeper), he stripped off the offending jumper and began searching for something more acceptable.

Just as he pulled out a dress shirt, John was shocked to feel a cool touch at his shoulder. Only his combat training stopped him from shrieking aloud.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice level.

"Your scar. It was a more serious wound than I had thought." His flatmate's voice had taken on that detached, contemplative tone it got when he was intrigued. "This isn't a simple bullet hole."

Trying to ignore the long fingers tracing his scar tissue, John sighed. "The bullet grazed my subclavian artery and shattered my clavicle. We were out in the middle of nowhere, so the operation to remove the fragments of bone was done in a field hospital. The surgeon was young, fresh, and not so experienced. Thus lots of scarring. It's not as bad as it looks. And, um, Sherlock? Could you . . . not touch my back like that? It's a little invasive."

"Ah, of course." The hand went away and John shrugged on the shirt he had chosen. "I apologize if I discomfited you."

"Don't worry about it."

* * *

In a fit of pique, the weather had dumped snow on London earlier in the week, and so now John stood up to his calves in grey-brown slush, shivering as he attempted to hail a taxi. Sherlock, of course, looked nothing less than perfectly comfortable in his long coat, scarf, and gloves. The only concession he'd made to the wet was a pair of knee-high black boots which John hadn't known he owned. They made him look strangely out of place, as though a nineteenth-century gentleman had been dragged to the present and forced into modern dress.

"We're never going to get a cab," John grumbled. "It's Christmas day, what were we thinking?" He would have continued his growing rant, but Sherlock chose that moment to step off the curb and flag down a cab, which immediately pulled over. John stared, disbelieving.

"How the hell did you do that?"

The detective shrugged. "He was driving more slowly, obviously checking the sidewalks for potential passengers. There's just a trick to directing one's motions in order to be seen. Come now, we'll be late."

Still muttering in annoyance (was there anything Sherlock couldn't do?), John slid into the cab, giving the man his mother's address. The ride wasn't too long, so they sat in comfortable silence, watching the icy streets go by. Soon, they arrived at an attractive brick building in Clerkenwell Green. John paid the cabbie, speaking rapidly to Sherlock the entire time.

"Remember, I would really prefer it if you didn't read people in that way of yours . . . it's a bit uncanny, puts them off. Mum'll love you, I'm sure—she loves everybody—but please, please be polite to my Dad. He won't take it well if you're not. _Don't_ mention Harry's drinking or Clara; she's dating someone new, who's actually an old school-friend of mine. Her name's Sophie, and she's a very nice person, but a bit shy, so try not to be too intimidating. Make small talk, _smile_, and if I hear you say 'boring' or 'dull,' I will personally rip your tongue out. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded, his face grave. John took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach.

"Sorry, sorry, that was a bit strident. I'm just nervous. Don't mind me. Well, I mean, do, but don't mind the tone. All right. Into the fire." They exited the cab and rang the doorbell. John offered up a halfhearted prayer.

The door was opened by a small, plump woman, her hair grey and wispy, her brown eyes warm. She smiled expansively, deep lines appearing around her mouth and eyes. Ushering them in, she pulled John into a hug.

"Hello! Oh, it's so good to see you." Pulling back, she held him at arm's length, studying him carefully. "You look well, dear. How are you? And please, introduce me to your friend."

John grinned. "I am well, Mum. And this is Sherlock Holmes. Mum, Sherlock; Sherlock, Mum."

The detective extended a gloved hand, smiling. "Pleased to meet you," he murmured, giving a courteous little bow which only served to enhance his anachronistic air. "John speaks most highly of you."

"Well, he better! I won't stand for an ungrateful son." She laughed brightly, pulling them further into the house. "You can leave your coats here. Also, I noticed John neglected a name; when I'm not being 'Mum,' you can call me Beth. Come on in, everyone's dying to see you both."

The entry hallway opened up into a warm, comfortable living room, where several figures rose to greet them. First came a short, lean woman with blonde-brown hair bobbed just below her ears and bright green eyes. She sprung up energetically, leaping across the room to land in front of her brother.

"John!" Harry threw her arms around him, nearly lifting him off the floor. "Bloody hell, it's been absolute ages! I've been reading your blog, you know. Fascinating stuff, it's almost like a bloody movie. God, and this must be him, right?" Dropping John, she turned and grabbed Sherlock's hand, pumping it enthusiastically. "The consulting detective! I have to tell you, John's turned me into a big fan. That deductive stuff just fucking blows me away, every time. You're a genius!" Still holding his hand, she looked over at her brother again. "And more than a bit gorgeous, which you failed to mention. Well done, he's nearly out of your league." She gave a lusty wink and stepped back.

"We're not dating—" John tried.

"Speaking of lovers, I'm sure you remember Sophie." Harry ushered forward a dark-haired girl, who smiled and clasped John's hand.

"Of course I do. Wonderful to see you again."

She ducked her head, blushing. "I've lost a bet, then. I thought you'd have completely forgotten me."

"Never. Smartest girl in our year; how could I forget that? Your observations were the only thing that made Mrs. Fogherty's classes bearable. What are you up to now?"

"I'm a librarian, actually. In a public high school."

"Oh, God, you're a saint. Harry's done well for herself." Sophie blushed again, and John decided now would be a good time to switch topics. "Right, I'm an idiot. Sophie, this is my flatmate, Sherlock. Sherlock, as you might have gathered, Sophie and I were in school together. She's the reason I passed English."

Sherlock shook her hand, once again flashing the warm smile that surprised John no matter how many times he saw it. "Charmed, I'm sure. Given the quality of the blog of our exploits John keeps, I already have great faith in your tutorial abilities."

John started at that; it was the first time he'd ever heard Sherlock praise his writing, as well as the first time he'd heard him give a compliment outside of working a case. Further discussion, however, was halted by the appearance of yet another person, this one an older man, tall and broad-shouldered.

"Welcome home, son," he rumbled.

"Hello, Dad. Hope you've been well."

"As well as can be expected. Is this the great detective, then?"

"Uh, yeah. Sherlock, this is my father, Alan. Dad, this is Sherlock Holmes."

They shook, this one shorter and firmer than the others. "Nice finally meeting you," John's father stated. If there was any censure in his tone, it was undetectable.

With that final introduction, the group settled into the living room. Harry brought a plate of crackers and cheese from the kitchen, placed it rather gracelessly on the coffee table, and sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over Sophie's shoulders. John's mother and father occupied two adjacent armchairs, leaving Sherlock and John the other (smaller) couch. John sighed internally and decided not to fight it. If Harry had decided they were a couple, she would be incorrigible if he sat anywhere other than next to his flatmate. He would like to avoid that argument at all costs.

Rather surprisingly, the smalltalk flowed easily for a while. Harry loved the sound of her own voice as much as ever, but Sophie seemed to have a slight mitigating influence, reigning her in when she got too loud. John talked easily about the clinic, though he regretted having to explain to his mother that he and Sarah had broken it off. They had met a few times, and liked each other (which was a major point for Sarah, as far as he was concerned), but she had ended it a few weeks ago. He was harder-put to explain the reason; she had simply said she thought his heart wasn't in the relationship, and he would be happier seeing other people. He supposed, given that the break-up hadn't upset him all that much, she was probably right, but it still confused him.

Soon, the inevitable happened. Harry turned to Sherlock, eyes shining, and asked him about his work.

"I mean, of course I've read John's write-ups, but it's all so bloody brilliant, I almost don't believe him. Are you working on a case now?"

"We concluded our work on a murder case on Wednesday."

Harry gasped. "A _murder_ case? What happened?"

"The killer used the vent between two rooms to release his pet snake, which, being highly poisonous, did away the victims with a bite. It was somewhat more fantastical than most of the work we do."

"No fucking way! That's bloody ridiculous! Jesus, John, I guess I shouldn't have questioned your truthfulness. How the hell did you figure it out, Sherlock? I would never have thought of something that screwy."

Sherlock launched into the explanation, so eager that John knew he'd been waiting for a chance to show off. "A woman came to us with the suspicion that her sister had been murdered in her sleep by her stepfather. Early in the investigation, it became clear to me that the killer could not have entered the window or the door to the room in question. My attention was then drawn to the ventilation system and to a bell-rope which hung down to the bed. I discovered that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, which instantly caused me to suspect that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the vent to the bed. The idea of a snake quickly occurred to me, which made sense considering the doctor I suspected had spent time in India and brought back several exotic animals. He was clever and ruthless, just the sort to think of using a poison which could not be discovered by any chemical test. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. Only a sharp-eyed coroner—which, God only knows, the police lack—could distinguish the two small punctures where the victim had been bitten. There had also been reports of a whistling sound, which I finally identified as a call to the snake. He had trained it to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this vent at night, knowing it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. Sooner or later the girl would be bitten and die.

"I had come to these conclusions before I entered his room. When we finally managed to gain access, a cursory inspection of his chair showed he stood on it often, which of course would be necessary to reach the vent. Several other details contributed to my conclusion of his guilt. John and I decided to stay in the room of the victim, so as to draw him out. In the middle of the night, I heard the snake hiss, and I turned on the lights and attacked it."

"He drove it back into the doctor's room," John added.

"It also turned on him. I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Roylott's death, but I cannot say it is likely to weigh heavily upon my conscience."

A short silence fell. Harry looked excited, Sophie more than a little shocked, and John's parents were inscrutable. John thought for a moment about directing the conversation elsewhere, but before he could come up with a topic, Harry spoke again.

"Bloody hell! Tell us another!"

Sherlock looked momentarily baffled. John had neglected telling him how many hits the blog got—largely because he feared inflating the detective's already monumental ego—and his flatmate was thus unaware some people found the stories fascinating. Now, facing validation in the form of Harry's expectant face, he grinned and began the much more complex tale of their involvement with the Baskerville case.

After a while, John's mother drifted to the kitchen to cook dinner, accompanied by Sophie, to whom she seemed rather close. Harry, John, and his father remained, listening to Sherlock speak. John felt like he should have gone and helped, but he was honestly fascinated. He had never heard the detective explain an entire case after the fact, and he was pleased to note that despite his protestations about John's "fantastical" write-ups, Sherlock had just as much flair for the dramatic. His telling was engaging, illuminated by his obvious enthusiasm for the trickier aspects of the case.

In fact, John soon realized that he rarely saw Sherlock this happy. The detective spoke rapidly, his smooth baritone voice perfect for narration. His pale, long-fingered hands moved constantly, communicating almost as much as his words. Given an interested audience, he moved beyond terse, factual statements, managing to convey the excitement and confusion and terror they had experienced.

Caught up in a story like this, expressive and _present_ and voluble, Sherlock was magnetic. Even knowing what he was capable of at his worst, John felt overwhelmed by the sheer force of his personality and intellect. He was reminded of their first few weeks together, when Sherlock's deductions had still inspired nearly involuntary exclamations. John was a level-headed sort, a soldier and a doctor, well able to keep his wits about him in a crisis. But adulation was a type of crisis he had found himself entirely unprepared for, and so he had welcomed his flatmate's emotional unavailability, addictions, and sociopathic tendencies. They kept him grounded. Now, faced with a happy, almost sociable Sherlock, John had to fight to look anywhere else.

When his mother called him to help in the kitchen, he was oddly glad.

* * *

**Next time: **_Christmas dinner is eaten, presents are exchanged, Sherlock inevitably slips up in his socializing, the Watson family dynamic is explored, and the slash quotient goes up. Promise._


End file.
